Black Smoke Rising
by canriope
Summary: In a slightly different timeline, d'Artagnan and his Musketeer brothers are forced to confront the messy border where job and life overlap. The beginnings are always rough, and behind it all lies a trail of fingerprints from those gone before. Together they must face a past left only in the traces of modern ghosts. Modern AU
1. Black Smoke Rising

Hello everyone! It's been a long time since I've written fanfiction, so please excuse pacing. Editing is only me myself and I & I tend not to re-read right away only because I often distract myself and get weighed down. I'll be going back and editing as I move on!

Originally, this story was a stand alone, but thoughts about it kept bumping around in my head, and with the muse, I figured I'd continue you.

Comments really encourage me to keep writing, but please excuse any pacing issues as I re-find my stride. You'll most likely notice that d'Artagnan is a bit of my favorite, but while the story may be focused around his plot points, I'm going to try and spread out the narrative to encompass all the boys.

If you have suggestions or questions, please let me know! No guarantees about working pieces into the story, but as I only have a tender idea of the direction I'm heading in, it's open to some interpretation.

Anyways, enjoy!

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d'Artagnans fingers flew over the keys before him, lines of text incomprehensible had any eyes been watching as they filtered forth piecemeal. There were, of course, no eyes watching, for d'Artagnan had tucked himself away tightly into a dark corner of a quiet hall of the Musketeers tower, lovingly referred to as the Garrison since long ago.

Explosive by nature, it had taken more than a strong will for d'Artagnan to step back, to ploy and plot and put together a plan that involved more than throwing himself uselessly at the brick and mortar walls of the building.

For a long time, it was grief that had driven his feet, each day dawning grey and cold– until it had turned to fiery-eyed justice. From there it had taken hours of hard work, mind-numbing amounts of code until his brain's gears refused to turn, until his wrists were sore with overuse, until he'd managed to find a backdoor into the server that would be his holy grail.

d'Artagnan had researched every square inch of his target from top to bottom, back to front. The musketeers themselves he had read about forward to back any piece of information he could find.

Such things were necessary, after all, when one was committed to justice.

The speeding code slowed to a trickle and then to a definitive end and d'artagnan clicked shut the laptop before taking a long, steadying breath. His heart was loud in his ear and his hands were clammy with sweat and nerves that had been steadily mounting since he'd managed to slip inside the night before, conspiring to create a perfect series of events that had culminated in one unlocked door and an opportunistic youth.

d'Artagnan knew there wouldn't be time for dallying or for doubts as he pushed himself to his feet, adjusting the fake laminate employees ID that hung around his neck as he shoved the laptop into hiding behind the storage boxes in the hall. He wouldn't be needing anymore, although he couldn't help the twinge of regret in leaving it behind.

He made his way back to one of the frequented side halls and over to a series of elevators. The second elevator on the right was his goal– he scanned his ID and it opened immediately, it's fluorescent cavity like the jaws of a beast waiting patiently to snap shut. After this, there was no going back.

But if d'Artagnan were honest with himself, the point of no return had came and gone long ago between the last flutter of breath and the beatings of his brother's heart. It had come and gone painted red in blood and forsaken. He had promised himself this at whatever the cost.

He wasn't sure that he had added correctly, done the maths right, but there wasn't any part of him that could find itself to regret it either way. For him there was no other way, and no peace to be found until this task was completed, no matter how it finished.

d'Artagnan got in the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor and took a long, shaky breath as he tried to still his nerves. He wasn't so good with the lead up, all the planning and calculating. It had always been easier to act than it was to find his head and keep his cool. He was fire and no temperance. It came natural.

So far the plan was all written in code. A series of events he'd been building steadily and carefully around the Musketeer Athos's predictable daily schedule.

This elevator would wait patiently only for him and after it arrived on the pre-ordained floor, the power to the building would cut and fall into lockdown, leaving the men trapped on the floor for a solid fifteen minutes before the system would release and reboot itself.

Fifteen minutes to kill the Musketeers Athos– or die trying. He had only the element of surprise on his side, and if that failed him...

did it really matter? d'Artagnan wavered on his sincerity. He'd spent so many nights sleepless that at times he wondered if it was all real. That his mind wasn't playing some trick on him. That maybe he would just wake up one day.

As the floors ticked past, d'Artagnan found his hearing dimming into a dull roar, nerves falling away. An odd combination of feeling rose in his gut as the elevator counted slowly to the fifth floor, it's doors sliding open.

The building's light promptly cut out, only the red glow of emergency lights to see by still highlighting the area. The whites of the walls gleamed bathed under the alien glow, unwelcoming to any intrusive insiders. d'Atagnan had found them off putting to start with, sterile in a way that was uncomfortably familiar, broken by warm woods and accented blues only in sitting areas.

There were no alarms, nothing to guide his direction as he took a left down the hall, but it didn't matter. d'Artagnan had poured over the files for long enough that it all felt familiar to him as he made his way quietly.

He passed doors slowly, listening intently until he heard the muffled sound of voices behind one of them. While three more doors followed afterwards, d'Artagnan knew that all three opened into the same padded gym area that offered areas for sparring and boxing, the other rooms on the floor making up the varying other equipment available.

He couldn't make out the words as they spoke asides from their tone– a placid concern and wondering. Over all of it was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He didn't have much time before the occupants inside decided to investigate the situation outside of the room.

d'Artagnan noted with some detachment that his hand upon the door knob trembled. Choosing to ignore it, his right hand dipped to his side, quietly gripping his gun from it's holster and flicked off the safety.

He shouldered the door in, gun raised to the first target he set his eyes on– a man with short curling hair, a mustache and brown eyes. The look on his face flashed through a few variations of emotions but settled on a churlish surprise, hands rising in a show of surrender.

Aramis, a voice in the back of d'Artagnans head supplied. Not who he was looking for but a good sign nonetheless. The two seemed often joined at the hip.

Aramis opened his mouth as though to speak but d'Artagnan cut him off before he'd had a chance, keeping his tone even despite the way his eyes flickered about the room.

"I'm looking for the musketeer Athos."

There was only a moments pause as Aramis seemed to process this request.

"And who is it, if I may inquire, that is asking?"

The floor seemed to fall away when he turned his gaze. Athos himself stood off to the right side of the room, nearly hidden in shadow nearby the benches that lined the wall. It was only his answer, a drawling calm, that had alerted d'Artagnan in any way to his presence.

His eyes flickered back to Aramis, but before he could answer, he registered with a jolt what he was seeing. At some point, Aramis had shifted to draw his own weapon in near silence while d'Artagnan had turned his attentions away. It was a wonder where the man had produced it from, not having spotted it at all on his way in. And so quickly at that.

But he only had a moment before the shot went off and he was flinging himself to the side, a resulting consequence surely of the gun he had re-aimed to train on Athos.

An impact hit his arm followed by a numbing warmth, but there was no time at all to examine the situation before there was a demanding shout coming from above him.

"Porthos!"

And then his gun arm was caught in a large grip and wrenched back until the weapon slid from his loosened fingers with a gasp.

d'Artagnan grit his teeth and as the man leaned over him from behind, he swung an elbow back to catch him across the side of his face before twisting and turning fully to stomp a boot to his gut hard enough to propel the man to the floor.

He didn't hesitate to swing back around but hadn't made it more than 3 steps when Aramis raised his free hand to motion his stillness, gun still trained on him.

"Ah ah ah. I wouldn't if I were you." There was an air of amusement around the man that seemed deadly– d'Artagnan hesitated in confusion just long enough for Aramis to read it on him, to offer him a new recourse while he had his attention.

"While this has all been highly entertaining, I think we need a little more information."

d'Artagnan, however, had all the information he needed. A calm fury settled itself over his shoulders as he spared a look behind him at the man now standing at a further distance away, d'Artagnan's gun safely in his grasp.

He weighed the moment, but not for long before he dashed forward, catching the startled surprise that flew over Aramis's features before he was ramming into him, shoulder-first.

For some odd reason the gun didn't go off this time, but d'Artagnan spent no time on the thought before he was pivoting towards Athos, who seemed to have been expecting him.

His first punch was blocked, but d'Artagnan registered the appraisal that flitted across Athos's features as he was forced to take a step back before d'Artagnans next.

They traded blows, punch for punch, and what finesse d'Artagnan lacked in his form he made up for in undeniable fury. Sweat was sliding down the back of his neck, beading at his forehead and sticking his shirt to his back; it felt as though he were fighting a mountain, the way Athos predicted his every move without faltering.

A glance to his side showed him Aramis and the other man standing resolutely back from the action which caught d'Artagnan's attention.

Athos suddenly swept his feet from him and he went down with a heavy thud. Before he could get back up, a booted foot stepped squarely across his chest and pinned him to the mat.

"Stay down," the musketeer hissed at him. "You're going to answer a few questions for us."

d'Artagnan, breathing hard, collected himself for all of one moment as though he were perhaps mulling over the thought before he wrapped his arms around Athos's leg and wrenched with all of his strength.

Athos fell to the ground heavily but before d'Artagnan could get up completely, on his knees now, a pair of arms gripped him from under his armpits and locked their hands behind his head, immobilizing him entirely.

He hadn't noticed either of the other two moving until it was too late.

"Alrigh' alrigh' already. Enough of that." A new voice spoke just behind d'Artagnans ear as he was pulled back and away from Athos, missing the exchange of a quirked eyebrow from Aramis to Athos and glower from Athos to Aramis as he was tugged away.

d'Artagnan fought briefly for control, but he was held immobile as though by god herself and eventually gave it up for a glower he trained on Athos. Athos himself was sucking in a couple breaths, a hand reaching up to touch his own cheek with a wince that fell away to what d'Artagnan was starting to assume was his natural expression; a scowl.

d'Artagnan took a breath, mounting for another attempt at breaking free, but as though sensing what he was thinking, his captor gave him another shake.

"Knock it off."

"You killed my brother." That seemed to knock everyone for a loop, d'Artagnan included. He hadn't meant to say it– or if he had, he hadn't intended to say it like this. Clasped securely and doing just about the opposite of meting out justice.

Athos raised a brow at him from where he stood, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You are mistaken."

"Agent d'Artagnan. Don't tell me you don't know his name."

Athos exchanged an inscrutable look with someone d'Artagnan could not turn to see– likely Aramis– before returning his attention.

"I do know the name. But I repeat; you are mistaken."

d'Artagnan felt some of his resolve wavering, the conviction of the absolute releasing it's grip. And with it came the memory of Athos's musketeer file.

A drunkard bastard who sat atop a pile of misdemeanors and who seemed keen to fight. But a man loyal to his job and his teammates and firmly believing in justice– a man who had rescued his teammates several times over no matter the cost.

If d'Artagnan had been honest with himself, a piece of him hadn't been so sure of the man as a target. But he'd always been one to lead with his heart, his emotions getting the best of him– and the information around the investigation on Athos himself had led d'Artagnan to drawing his own conclusions.

Finally walking into d'Artagnans view, Aramis cleared his throat. In his hands were two clips, one from d'Artagnan's gun undoubtedly, but the guns themselves seemed to be nowhere in sight.

"For what it's worth, Athos is the most fair minded and honest individual I know." d'Artagnan didn't think he was imagining the pull of discomfort at Athos's lips, but it was gone in an instant.

d'Atartagnan swallowed, could feel himself sagging some in the grip behind him. His arm had started to pulse oddly and uncomfortably, his fingertips feeling numb, but he pushed the sensation away.

Sensing the fight had all but gusted out of him, d'Artagnan felt the arms around him loosening ever so slightly from vicelike– though not enough for him to consider his own release.

"He said your name." d'Artagnans voice was nearly a whisper in it's confusion, but he bristled at the pitying eyes Aramis turned towards Athos as they carried out a silent conversation d'Artagnan wasn't able to follow.

"We don't know why that is," Aramis finally returned to the conversation at present. "But if it is justice you wish to have, killing Athos will not gain you it."

d'Artagnan's gaze passed back and forth between the men, looking for answers he was quickly realizing they did not possess. His head was starting to feel a bit fuzzy, cottony, the area between his back and the man behind slicked with an inordinate amount of sweat.

"I see." He said finally, although he wasn't sure exactly what he was seeing. His thoughts weren't coming as clearly so it took him a while to wrap his head around his predicament fully. "Then what will you do with me?" Again that silent conversation, but before it was finished d'Artagnan cut into it with a demand.

"I must know my brother's killer. If you are going to arrest me, promise me you will find him justice in my stead."

"We aren't going to arrest you," Aramis replied quickly as Athos passed him a look of flashing disagreement, something Aramis astutely ignored.

At last, Athos nodded at the man who held him from behind and suddenly d'Artagnan was released from his hold. Shockingly, he found his body didn't seem to want to obey his directions, legs shaking below him before they gave out.

"What the–" There was a loud proclamation from behind him, followed by a swear. "Lad's bleeding all over the place. Didn't tell me ya hit him, Aramis."

The world was soft around the edges from d'Artagnans spot on the floor and he thought cooly that he hadn't known either. The lessening of the excitement gave way to a new sort of pounding in his head and dryness in his mouth. He swallowed heavily a few times, tried to concentrate on the moment.

"I didn't realize I had." Concern creased Aramis's tone and suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder, startling d'Artagnan bad enough that it momentarily sharpened the environment around him.

d'Artagnan blinked up owlishly at the man in surprise.

"Where are you hurt? Is it your shoulder?" He received only a longer pause in reply to his question, words processing slow like syrup before d'Artagnan looked questioningly down to his own shoulder and Aramis made a noise of frustration in his throat. He reached for the zipper of d'Artagnans jacket.

d'Artagnan startled immediately back and away, wobbly legs forced under him to stand.

"Don't be difficult," Aramis rankled, moving towards him again. Again, d'Artagnan stepped back, hands raised as though to ward him off, or in surrender. He wasn't actually sure of the thought process behind most of his actions at the moment.

"I just tried to kill you."

"Technically, you tried to kill Athos. And yourself now apparently."

d'Artagnan lifted a hand to his shoulder only to find it wet, the dark red of his blood blending into the black cotton of his clothes. He really had been hit– and as though his thoughts and his environment were one, the lights in the building came back on.

d'Artagnan hissed as he was both blinded and suddenly very aware of a growing pain in his shoulder, replacing the numbness that had taken up residence there moments before.

"– medical help." He realized that Aramis had been speaking to him too late and missed almost all of what he'd said. He waved a hand absently in response to the man.

"If you're letting me free, I need to go." It didn't feel like he had spoken at all, the words forming on numbed lips and coming from some place outside of his body. As he turned to go, the large man behind him stepped into his path. Briefly, panic spike through him, but the man raised his hands in assurance.

"Look, you can go off an' get patched up somewhere else, but here's the best place to find what you're lookin' for. An' I don' think you're gonna get a better offer 'an us." The man reached out a hand and touched d'Artagnan gently on his uninjured arm. It helped some to get his thoughts in order and tidied away, made him feel less like he might just float off.

His arm was really starting to burn and tingle, a jolt of pain that radiated outwards that began like a headache and grew with each heart beat.

"Why?" He couldn't imagine the reasoning behind their actions. Allowing him to go free– offering to help him. He wasn't able to articulate all the moving pieces and it was the only word that seemed to summarize his thoughts, wits having drained away with the blood loss and his articulation with the exhaustion.

Aramis spoke up as he crossed into d'Artagnan's wavering vision.

"Because he was a good man."

d'Artagnan clenched his jaw at the sudden and fierce raw emotion that rose in him like a dark wave. He missed his brother more than words alone could quantify. It was like a wound had opened in his chest, a chasm far too deep to ever be filled.

It was a love that had nearly buried him. Could this group see the smoke signals he was sending up? Did they find him pitiable? It hurt too much to think, the thoughts clambering over one another for attention as they drowned in the murkiness of his mind.

"'sides, it's what we do." Porthos spoke up, a grin spreading across his face. d'Artagnan felt helpless but to return it, weaker and pained, but honest enough all the same.

d'Artagnan nodded, swallowed.

"Then I'll choose to trust you." d'Artagnan's knees finally gave out and his vision swam to black before he could register the ground quickly approaching. In some distant part of him, d'Artagnan found, he felt warm.


	2. Dimestore Saints

i've finally edited the first chapter + it's pacing, and plan to continue it going forward as well! the next chapter is already completed, only the plot/scenes need more organization. thanks for the people who have dropped me a note, it's appreciated!

this chapter is on the shorter side, but is where it naturally ended.

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Athos glowered at Aramis from where he stood as they sat outside the medical wing of the Garrison, which was found on the second floor. A place made for recuperation and to keep identities private, the medical wing allowed agents to be moved from hospitals and provided protection without straining the governments resources.

The building itself was home to every manner of need the Musketeer regiment found itself having. Founded in the 1600s, the Garrison was an independent military entity that served the necessities of government and King, but which recruited it's members in a more private and roundabout basis than the public military branches.

Secretive and heavily guarded, the agents inside were classified persons of restricted access. Agents highly trained in many differing fields, no one was to know their identities or names besides those with the highest levels of clearances.

It was of some concern then that the boy himself had managed just as well and so soon. Athos was aware that of their three, he had always been the most wary, but for good reason. He took his steps with utmost caution only so that he may protect his brothers at his back.

And he was strikingly aware that Aramis and Porthos had both known what reaction they would receive when he had found the stripling youth in their own medical ward.

"He shouldn't be here. Get rid of him."

"We promised to help him," Aramis pointed out, a smile dancing at the edge of his lips. But it did not always mean he was happy. Aramis, Athos had found, had somehow always had a tighter hold over his emotions, which he charmingly wrestled into submission.

Both Porthos and Athos had long learned to read his feelings from the glint in his eye, rather than the smile that might grace his lips.

Athos could read the annoyance in the crinkle next to his eye. Breaking a promise in Aramis's eye was a sin, and while Athos and him were brothers in heart, at times they were brothers in the way they butted heads as well, both just as stubborn as the other when found on the right grounds.

Athos felt the medic was often far too empathetic, and undoubtedly shared a shred of guilt at having maimed the boy once the heat of the moment had passed and Porthos had disarmed him.

It was with growing frustration then that he butted heads further with Aramis, who seemed stuck on the topic of which Athos would much rather be beyond already.

"But we did not promise to keep him," Athos returned waspishly . The boy, after all, was a liability beyond Athos own distaste at the idea of working besides him. Breaking into the Garrison alone was bad enough by itself.

Security on the building was tight and every piece of d'Artagnans presence made him feel uneasy. He was dangerous, as he'd clearly displayed, and as an unknown quantity he was volatily unpredictable.

There were a number of other reasons he was less inclined to tie his name to the boys as well, which his friends were more than aware of. Agent d'Artagnan of the Kings Musketeers had been cut down mid-mission less than four months ago. While the details lay securely under wraps, the investigative report only revealed that a meeting had gone down of unknown consequence.

Not orchestrated by the Government or Captain Treville, agent d'Artagnan had mysteriously gone for a meetup where he had been gunned down. The mercenaries caught on video wore gear that masked their appearances.

But the thing that had troubled Athos the most deeply was the information that had only come to light afterwards. However long spent lying on that floor, agent d'Artagnan had been discovered alive, if only just long enough for an ambulance ride, and only just long enough to utter one name–

Athos's own.

The investigation had been intensive, his home searched, his history checked and checked again. Athos himself had been on mission at the time, deep undercover for the last two months in England, of which he had been forced to abandon and temporarily stripped of his accesses, clearances and forced under temporary arrest once the orders from the higher ups had trickled down.

Ultimately, it had amounted to nothing. The search, the investigation, and agent d'Artagnan's death itself. Not once had a true connection been made between himself and the man who, if Athos were honest, was barely an acquaintance of his own.

In the end, order restored, Athos had been shaken and forced to question his future. Things had only just begun returning to normal, his clearances renewed not even two months ago and full permissions granted a month past.

"He coul' prove useful to us. Knows 'ow to 'andle himself." Porthos resolved with a shrug, biting into the apple in his hand. It didn't seem much a moment went by that Porthos wasn't eating something or other.

Athos' frown only deepened as the two outnumbered him in turn.

Athos, who burnt for justice just as true as any other Musketeer, was more than loath to face working with the boy on any short term or long term basis, regardless of the youth's usefulness.

He was strikingly aware of the parallels he could draw from himself to the boy that only made it all the more repulsive of an idea. Athos did not give voice to the pieces of his mind that found familiarity in the youth. Young, brash and overconfident, Athos was forced to crush down on the box of memories that threatened to open if he wasn't careful.

"He could be a spy. Or a setup."

"So we'll interview 'im. Put the boots to 'em, make 'im sweat a bit."

He was losing ground, and fast.

"He broke into the garrison. Not to mention the number of other illegalities he's committed."

"And I assure you that I'm still rather impressed by that myself. Besides, he certainly knows better now." Aramis chipped in, a waver of a guilt under his tone he covered with congenial lightheartedness.

Athos hesitated and Porthos read something he did not know he had intended to be read. A sidelong look was passed from him to Aramis, who softened from his stubborn determination when he turned back to speak with Athos once again.

"We know your history with the name d'Artagnan, but it's all the more reason to have him on. You more than anyone should want to know what happened on that mission– and the boy will surely have more insight into what could have possibly been going through agent d'Artagnan's mind.

You more than anyone knows he deserves to see this justice through."

Aramis was looking at him imploringly, never one to shy away from the impassivity or coldness of Athos's own gaze. He knew better than to break the silence and fill it with more words: Athos was of fair mind and judgement in his line of duty. He would, in the end, reach the logical conclusion where justice was to be found.

Athos found himself letting out a resounding sigh as he shrunk down into the seat besides Porthos and wiped a tired hand down his face. He chose to pointedly ignoring the glimmer of accomplishment that twinkled in Aramis's eye over his head, but was less successful in escaping Porthos cheer, who never took his wins quietly.

He leaned back to smack an arms against Athos' shoulders, a large smile appearing across his face and seemingly oblivious to the headache that was now blooming behind Athos' eyes.

"Tha's the spirit."


	3. The More I Know (The Less I Know)

hello again! i'm back with another chapter here & am a bit ahead of it now with the following chapters, so we've got that looking up. i've noticed on my re-reads i tend to be a bit wordy– sorry if the pacing is slow for you guys !

there's still about 2 more chapters until any sort 'action' gets on. call this a slow-burn? for action?

anyways, let me know in the comments if you've been enjoying at all! it helps me know whether or not it's worth it to continue. thanks !

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d'Artagnan woke to the soft sound of murmuring. For a moment it seemed he wasn't awake at all, floating as though on water, everything about him fuzzy, hazy and soft.

The edges of his world were gentle, and yet when he cracked open his eyes, the flushed white of the room blinded him and recognition spakred in his brain, panic setting in as pin pricks of sweat forming on his brow.

He forced his eyes open, forced the sterile world further into focus.

Beyond the soft edges of the environment was the familiar medical beeping which rang percussive in his ears. It seemed to grow louder and louder, until it was the only sense that occupied the room. Just beyond it was the sterile smell of a hospital.

The beeping of the monitor beside him grew faster as his palms grew clammy.

d'Artagnan sat up abruptly and without warning. The moment he started moving the pain in his arm escalated, and by the time he was all the way up, he was faced by a veritable wall of it, pounding in waves that cascaded down his shoulder and radiated out.

He stifled a groan as he hunched over, but the panic from before had not faded, only mounted further with the increase of discomfort.

"Woah hold on. You shouldn't be sitting up yet," a voice soothed from beside him, and it was only then that he remembered the soft murmurs h'ed heard from before and that he wasn't alone.

A hand touched his shoulder and he jolted. His gaze somehwat wild when he turned to face the man at his side. He took a glance over the rest of the collection in the room as well.

Aramis was at his side and in a seat nearby, the large man from before while near the door stood Athos. They all looked at him with varying degrees of concern and consternation and d'Artagnan found himself swallowing hard again the acid taste in the back of his throat.

It was weakness that was showing on his face and in the anxiety that churned in his gut– even worse was exposure in front of strangers. There was something immensely humiliating about being injured in a hospital bed on the verge of a panic attack in front of three professionally trained agents, d'Artagnan found.

Certainly none of it eased the nervous energy moving up and down his spine. He felt queasy.

"I can't be here." His voice was hoarse, weaker than he would like as he chose to ignore the room's occupants and started tugging the adhesive patches from his skin.

This seemed to rouse the group of men in front of him to alarm, for Aramis's hand on his shoulder grew more insistent and his free hand reached down to touch lightly at d'Artagnan's own.

d'Artagnan paused only long enough to shake it away.

"You need to stay here for monitoring. You've been hurt. Do you remember?" Aramis's voice was tinged with concern and d'Artagnan made a valiant effort to pull in deeper breaths.

"I remember. I just can't breathe in here." d'Artagnan's gaze turned up to Aramis, part of him begging him to understand and the rest of him refraining from begging at all, his jaw clenched tight and furrow tight between his brows.

"It's only a hospital," Athos stated obviously, although Aramis and Porthos both could read the true unbiased confusion and perhaps concern, if not for the boy, that underlayed his neutral tone.

"That's my problem," d'Artagnan ground out. "I'm no good with hospitals." Aramis took the moment to pass a discerning look to the others in the room before he turned back to the boy's form in front of him.

"Try taking some deeper breaths," Aramis spoke softly, noting the boys trembling and the way his fingers turned white-knuckled grasped so tight to the sheets around him when he had finished tugging all the electric adhesives from his skin.

There was an effort made in forcing in a deep breath or two before d'Artagnan released the sheets and seemed to gain some semblence of control over his trembling, which Aramis took as a good sign. Only then the boy took a steadying breath and pulled back the sheets, a determined glint in his eye as he swung his feet to the ground.

"I'm not staying here." And the fierceness of the statement caused Aramis to take a step back. He was unable to puzzle the boy together, and as much as he'd preferred him to stay where he was, Aramis knew better than to force healing in a place of trauma. It was obvious there were some memories behind the boy's emotions.

"An' where you plannin' on goin'?" Porthos finally piped up. "Still got a question or two for ya. Don' think Athos is keen on ya wanderin' away scott."

Athos tossed an imperceptible scrutinizing look Porthos way at being so unsubtly thrown under the bus, although Porthos acted as though he missed it entirely.

In truth, it was Porthos's way of talking sense into the boy more than anything. He wasn't partial to keeping the boy prisoner if he didn't want to stay.

"The hallway is fine. I just can't be in here."

d'Artagnan's stubborn look didn't seem to be working against Aramis, and Aramis's own gaze wandered over to Athos with a question in the raise of his brow.

d'Artagnan noted this quickly, turning his stare on the man leaned in the doorway, determined brow not dropping an inch as he added a, "please," to the obvious leader.

Athos was silent just a moment longer before he gave an imperceptible nod, paused, then clarified.

"Very well."

d'Artagnan did not wait any longer before pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the agony that was his arm– and noting the state of his dress, or rather, undress– before walked towards the door. Wearing a gown, tightly tied in the back, he was at least still wearing his underwear beneath them and couldn't find embarrassment otherwise.

Aramis followed quickly after, tutting in annoyance but letting the boy go as he pleased. Porthos smiled at Athos as he moved past him in the doorway which earned him a hard stare in return.

"Aye 'e seems just as stubborn as you."

"Stubborn seems like a choice word," Athos noted drily but made no more comment as he too followed them out.

It was only in the hallway that his eyes caught on the thick scar that curled around the top of d'Artagnan's right shoulder and down the length of his shoulder blade. He knew the other men had seen it as well, but no comment was made.

It wasn't a far journey, all of them only making it around the corner to the waiting room that lacked the typical hospital aesthetics. Here, everything was rich accented woods that warmed the environment and blue carpets in a more subdued color than the traditional Musketeer aqua.

At last, d'Artagnan felt like he could take a breath and he leaned against a wall, ignoring the receptionist who looked up upon his arrival. A second later he slid down until he was sat upon the floor, aware of the chairs that surrounded him in the room but preferring it.

There was something more comforting about the floor. It lacked the formality of the chairs, all dark wood and official. On the floor he couldn't be mistaken for anything but the mess he was, able to sit more comfortably askew than in the seats.

The cool of the wall against his back helped soothe some of the painful throbbing of his shoulder. For that he was grateful.

His elbows rested on his knees which were bent out in front of him as the others finally filed into the room, taking up the chairs around him in silence.

Aramis appraised the lad from where he hovered overhead. He looked weary. Not thin, but certainly a leanness to his frame that spoke of hard work and a lack of self care. There were dark smudges under his tired eyes.

"Well...," Aramis started after a pause and thoughtful note, "It's probably a little late for introductions, but I'm Aramis. The big one is Porthos and the sour one is Athos."

The introduction was left open-ended, prompting d'Artagnan's participation. He had a creeping suspicion they were well aware of his name, but it was only polite.

"d'Artagnan." d'Artagnan didn't look up in time to catch the flinch that seemed to follow room-wide, but he did spot Athos tipping his chin towards the receptionist, who quickly went to busy themselves in a different room.

Athos was quiet until they were alone.

"Why are you here, d'Artagnan?" His voice was cool and there was an imperceptible pinched look to his face when the name rolled off his lips. d'Artagnan's face twisted into a frown, but his voice was more confused than combative when he did speak.

"But you know why I'm here."

"And I'm not sure I believe you."

"I'm not trying to be rude, but that doesn't sound like my problem."

Porthos let out a chuckle.

"Feisty."

d'Artagnan spared a look his way, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but hesitated, changing his mind about whatever it was at the last minute.

"Don't you have a file or something?"

"I think what Athos is trying to say," Aramis interjected, moving to squat between Athos's direct gaze and d'Artagnan's confusion, "Is that he'd rather hear it from you directly."

"Which part?"

"All of it, if it's not too much trouble. And while we're at it, wouldn't you prefer to take a seat?" Aramis gestured towards one of the chairs, finally airing the thought that had been bouncing around in the back of his head since he had wandered in to discover d'Artagnan slumped on the floor.

The boy shook his head, eying the group before he turned a small smile, closer to a grimace, on Aramis. "No, thank you."

There was a pause where Athos's gaze seemed to sharpen before d'Artagnan cast his hands upwards to recall their attentions and clarify.

"About the seat, I mean. The rest is– well. The rest isn't all that long of a story, if we're being honest." d'Artagnan hesitated again, watched momentarily while Aramis moved to take a seat on the floor in front of him and Athos presently did not before he continued.

"If you'll start, where did you learn to fight like that?" Aramis prompted, giving the boy a place to get a foothold.

"My brother, Alexandre. He was police before he was recruited to the musketeers." d'Artagnan wet his lips, and though his eyes fell to the floor a moment, they turned back on his audience with a pride Athos was starting to recognize as all his own.

"He taught me the basics and had me to take up other means of fighting– muay tai and boxing. He wanted me to know how to defend myself." There were other reasons too, of course. Things d'Artagnan found weren't relevant, that could be glossed over– and that perhaps, the men in front of him already knew some of.

How Alexandre's work life had gotten tangled into his family's– how they had paid for it more than they could afford.

How Alexandre had prepared him for a life that he had knew would hurt, for they were too alike for him to ever have expected anything else from his brother.

It was the truth, in the end. His gaze held Athos's as they negotiated the honesties he had given and the omissions he was skating past. At some point Athos must have thought it well enough, for he moved on in the questioning.

"And the information from the investigation– how did you manage that?"

"I'm good with computers."

At Porthos's skeptical look, d'Artagnan clarified.

"I'm really good with computers."

"Clearly," Aramis grinned.

There was a lull in the conversation in which d'Artagnan cleared his throat, wet his bottom lip and opened his mouth before promptly shutting it again.

The others somehow knew better than to interrupt the slow thought that was willing itself to d'Artagnan's mouth. Athos took the time to wait out whatever it was that d'Artagnan had been trying not to ask with a calm patience.

d'Artagnan was starting to recognize his glare as his restful face.

"Why your name?" They sounded rough, too hard, although everyone in the room knew it was only a valiant attempt to hide the pain of someone badly hurting.

His brother was never far from his mind at all, always on the tip of his tongue and hiding like a ghost in the corner of his smiles. Fiery, d'Artagnan had always been all heart. Hurting as it was, the pain seemed to blend into all his actions.

And Athos, all cruel edges, cold surfaces and brutal honesty, recognized the fingerprints left behind by a person once loved. Athos was, after all, a horrible tapestry of all the people who had cut him before.

d'Artagnan was only the same.

That made Athos more uneasy than he cared to admit. A boy so like him yet so young. For all the world had cared to step on Athos, it seemed oddly cruel to deal the same to a boy.

Life wasn't fair, though. And better to learn it young then go along until it was too late– until that one simple truth was enough to destroy everything.

It wasn't Athos's problem.

"I don't know why," he answered finally and with a carefully calculated nothing to his tone. Aramis looked over at him curiously, but gave up his searching glance a moment later. He addressed the boy before them.

"Will you help us find out?"

d'Artagnan gazed at him, eyebrows shooting up to his forehead.

"You're asking me for help?"

"You knew him better than any of us."

"...I'm not sure that's true," d'Artagnan attempted a smile but gave it up quickly, "But I do want to help."


	4. Back For Me

hello all ! this one is more transitional than anything, but only a few more until there's more action. i appreciate all the comments i've gotten. i'm always worried about my writing style being too slow 😂 which i'm not overly convinced it's not, but i hope the internalization & thoughts at least make it more interest.

i hope everyone is having a good holidays as well ! keep warm, eat good food. fight. survive. 3

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The conversation had evolved from there, encompassing d'Artagnan's age. Porthos had commented on his unfortunate baby face and the others had passed around amused looks when he'd revealed that he was 18, as though they hadn't already seen as much in his file.

d'Artagnan suspected it was partially for his benefit.

d'Artagnan himself had asked after their lives, jobs and missions, but only got the expected basics in return. Even his conversation with Alexandre had carried a theme of censure, no matter how close they had been after their father's death.

Or maybe because of their father's death.

After all that had happened, d'Artagnan couldn't say he blamed his brother for his defensive and secretive nature.

It was the blame that Alexandre had put on himself that had driven him. He wore it like the world on his shoulders. It was clear that their father's death was connected to his work somehow.

And while d'Artagnan never blamed him for their father, a piece of him couldn't help being angry at Alexandre for his own death.

Secrets had gotten him killed, and he'd left behind a substantial trail in his wake. How d'Artagnan would give to have a few moments back, to go back to the beginning again.

Say 'I love you' one more time.

d'Artagnan didn't say all as much to the agents before him, settling for telling them of Alexandre's proclivities for secrecy– but that he had always been honest and true, something Porthos and Aramis knew and could see similarly in d'Artagnan himself.

But they had read the exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders soon after, and having had a chance to calm down, d'Artagnan had hesitated at the thought of returning to his hospital room.

Aramis noticed this and offered d'Artagnan a basic change of borrowed clothes from him– a clean set of gym clothes that d'Artagnan swapped into gratefully in a nearby bathroom.

They proved a little loose on his form. Although made up of hard-earned muscle, d'Artagnan had always been lanky, less prone to bulk or fat on his frame and light on his feet. Not to mention he hadn't been eating or sleeping well lately, prone to nightmares he hadn't had since he'd been 8.

When he asked about returning to his own home, he was met by several thoughtful faces before Athos gave him a firm 'no'. Aramis insisted on him staying nearby for medical necessities, and it seemed Athos wanted to take his own time to run a far more thorough background check on d'Artagnan.

He took it as gracefully as he could, tired, in pain and having would've preferred a familiar bed for the night.

Aramis had shooed the others off as he escorted d'Artagnan to the first floor, far left wing of the Garrison, an area more like housing for the weary musketeers who only had a moment to pause between missions.

"These are our dorms for between missions, usually. You can stay here for now." Aramis had introduced a small and simple room that possessed only a single bed and a bathroom attached to the back of it. There weren't any windows and only a single clock to tell the time by.

The theme of the room seemed hues of grey, black and white– but d'Artagnan noted amusedly the blue down comforter across the bed that struck him as relatively on-brand.

d'Artagnan hadn't hesitated in taking a seat on the bed, exhaustion weighing down his arms and legs and threatening the fall off his eyes. He fought against it with sheer determination.

"And no one will ask about a civilian being in here?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud, aware that he was far from inconspicuous. And that was ignoring the fact that the building itself had suffered a large breach of security only the night before.

"We've already had a conversation with the captain. He knows you're an important witness at the moment, needing to recuperate from an unfortunate injury."

d'Artagnan couldn't help the derisive puff of air that escaped him as he laid back carefully atop the made bed.

'Important witness.' It seemed to undercut the truth and d'Artagnan couldn't fathom that a person so high in the ranks wouldn't have detected the lie. The smirk d'Artagnan caught on Aramis's lips seemed to edify this exact fact.

So he most likely did know. That sent a jolt of discomfort down d'Artagnan's spine, but there wasn't much to be done about it now. If they had wanted him arrested, he would have been arrested.

Although holed up here, he knew they would be scrutinizing him and his actions, putting him under a magnifying glass. He knew Athos would at the very least.

But he had placed his future in these three men's hands and he could only trust it had been the right decision. As childish as it seemed, he held a belief in the musketeers that he couldn't dispel, a notion of justice for the people they served.

"Right now what you need is rest and to worry about this in the morning. We can talk about it more later."

At that moment, d'Artagnan heard the sound of another person's approach and recognized from the rumble of their voice that it was Porthos. At some point he must have closed his eyes and he was finding it hard to open them again.

He forced them open, only just, to see Porthos taking a step into the room to set the laptop he had left for lost on the bed side table. d'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to speak so he settled for giving him a pointed look in question, which drew a chuckle from the large man.

"Our men spotted it. Tech team gave it a good clean but I told 'em we knew of someone who might 'ave a use for it."

d'Artagnan accepted the explanation without comment and Porthos didn't ask anything more as he made his way back to the door. Aramis gave him a last reassuring smile but d'Artagnan's eyes were sliding shut before any more comments could be made.

Exhaustion drove him down into a dreamless slumber.

The next time d'Artagnan awoke the clock on the wall read 10am. Late for d'Artagnan who often woke early to greet the sun.

Surprisingly, he found he was now under the covers when he had started the night on top of them. There was something disconcerting about realizing he had been so out of it he hadn't noticed the other men moving him.

The agony of his shoulder had muted itself into a dull roar, but it made itself known as he sat up, the movement jarring the wound to a stabbing pain and he was relieved to see the pain pills sitting by his bedside table along with a glass of water. He took one quickly, sat in agony just a moment longer, and decided one more couldn't hurt.

He had been forcing himself to drag his feet to the floor when there was a knock at his door.

"Alright?" It was Aramis's voice and d'Artagnan knew he was announcing himself. d'Artagnan took a moment longer to pull himself together before he stood.

When he finally opened the door, d'Artagnan was greeted by Aramis's cheery face, who seemed astoundingly overjoyed that d'Artagnan was offering him his presence.

"There you are. Hope I didn't wake you," Aramis said, eyes roving the length of him assessingly. There was just enough time for d'Artagnan to feel self-conscious dressed in Aramis's gym clothes and hair messy from sleep when he realized a reply was expected of him.

"No, it's fine. I usually wake up a lot earlier than this."

"Brilliant. Well in that case, Porthos and Athos are awaiting us for breakfast."

They walked back the way they had initially come, turning until they approached the wide, main hall d'Artagnan was familiar with. They passed through a pair of thick metal doors that needed a card before they came out to a new room which possessed a reception desk, a guard, and a small seating area. At the other end of it was a set of large double doors in the same dark wood that accented the building.

Aramis tipped his head to the receptionist before them as they presumably exited the restricted area, which started to worry d'Artagnan when he noticed a card reader just on the other side of the door before a pass was shoved into his hands and he was told to put it somewhere safe.

The card had his name and a photo that d'Artagnan couldn't figure where they had gotten from, as well as text stating 'level 2' clearance which would suffice in gaining him access to the first floor, medical wing and gym of the building he was shortly informed.

(But not entry and exit to the building, Aramis also informed with a slight grimace.)

The double doors opened off to the left into a building of grand style that seemed to have been the original Garrison before it was expanded and upgraded, making the old area home to other government offices now.

d'Artagnan was surprised by the shift in decor, not an area he had spent any particular amount of time studying. Instead of the clean, professional environment, it had a warmer style with ornate roofing that lofted high above and was lit by two large crystal chandeliers. Up above, the ornate wooden roofing gave way to sun lights that let in the warm glow of outside.

There was a large, half circle desk of reception in the center of the room manned by a group of 5 people, its curved sides facing out and away from the door that they had just exited.

Official blue carpeting decorated the central area of the floor but gave way to wooded nooks and corners for the occasional table. The room was full of in and out foot traffic from workers and visitors alike, a gentle murmuring of voices at all times.

On d'Artagnan's inquiry as to their location, Aramis explained that this particular entryway wasn't oft used and that they were only using it now because Athos had had a meeting in one of it's many rooms only 15 minutes before.

Aramis didn't hesitate to lead d'Artagnan down the couple steps to one of the smaller tables set below one of the windows. Both Athos and Porthos were already seated and waiting, it seemed, for them to arrive before they tucked into their food, which wasn't anything more than a pile of sandwiches one of the men must have picked up on their way in to the building.

The real reason for the meeting became obvious when they had finally finished, d'Artagnan impressing Porthos by finishing two sandwiches in record time before he was promptly offered some sort of bitter espresso shot, which he downed in one go.

"Good lad," Porthos boomed good naturedly and d'Artagnan couldn't help but take in his good cheer with a cough and a wide smile of his own.

"Right. Now that we're all here, we'll be needing to take a trip back to your place. d'Artagnan?" Aramis startled d'Artagnan out of his momentary incapacitation where he had tried to chase the bitterness from his mouth with a glass of water as his brows pinched together with confusion.

"You're letting me go home?"

"Yes and no. More of a trip to pick up the essentials. Can't borrow my clothes forever, can you?" Aramis teased good naturedly.

"Though hey are quite comfortable," d'Artagnan ribbed back, overtly pleased with the idea of being able to go home even if only for a short visit. "I'm not allowed to stay there, then?"

"You'll be staying here for the time being," Athos finally spoke. d'Artagnan had almost forgotten he was at the table entirely, so silent and still he'd been up until the moment.

"Can I ask why?"

"You may ask," Athos answered before he seemed to be done with the conversation as a whole. He stood from the table and tapped his fingers to it once in front of where Aramis was seated before he walked off, leaving a confused d'Artagnan staring after him at the table.

"Is he upset I tried to kill him?" The honest concern that laced d'Artagnan's tone cut short the laugh that his question had pulled from both the men in front of him, although Porthos was the one who first came to rescue.

"Athos knows better 'an most you were lookin' for justice. 'e's just like that with everyone. Don't take it personal like." Porthos smiled at him reassuringly but it didn't do all that much to stymy his discomfort.

d'Artagnan knew he'd take someone trying to murder him rather personal so he wasn't sure he blamed Athos exactly, but he left it aside for the moment when Porthos started talking again.

"You'll 'ave to stay at the Garrison in the meantime, given our whole 'protected witness' deal with the top man." It made, although the idea of being limited to the dorm portions of the Garrison for the forseeable future was a little offputting. He tried not to let it show on his face.

"On that note," Aramis stood from the table, hands placed flat upon it a moment, "we should go meet with Athos."

Porthos gave Aramis a nod and began collecting up their leftovers at the table to chuck into the bin nearby as d'Artagnan stood and followed Aramis from the common area.

Aramis led them out to the curb where Athos was leaning against a car before flicking his cigarette and grinding it beneath his heel and making for the driver's seat.

Aramis automatically took up the passenger spot in front while d'Artagnan slipped in the back, moving to make way for Porthos who slid in after him.

"I live in the 13th District," d'Artagnan leaned forward to mention to Athos, "At 3–".

Athos lifted a hand to stop him short mid-sentence as he turned and pulled away form the curb.

"It's in your file."

"Oh, alright." d'Artagnan tried not to look so put out as he leaned back, but he must have failed for Aramis passed him an apologetic smile.

The rest of the trip was nearly silent. d'Artagnan tried not to fidget in his seat, but it felt odd to be going back home now and with the collection of people he had gathered with him.

When he had last left his home, Athos had been a phantom murderer of his brother– and even now, he was still connected to his brother's name somehow. That d'Artagnan didn't know made him wonder if bringing him into their home was the right thing to do– whether or not it was an insult to his brothers memory.


	5. A Thousand Ways to Go

thanks to everyone who's left likes + comments ! it's been a really nice motivator for writing these chapters. this is a bit of a bonding chapter before we move onto a bit more of an action section. hang tight. :^ )

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They arrived at d'Artagnan's doorstep without fanfare. The building itself was a soft powder blue accented with white trim and they had all piled out in front of the door when d'Artagnan had paused, a troubled expression crossing over his face as he eyed the other men.

"I- I don't have my key."

"Ah, I've got it 'ere somewhere. Just a moment." Porthos dug around in his jacket pockets until he finally produced a small handful of d'Artagnan's things including his phone and his house key.

The door opened into a quaint house that was clearly well lived and loved. The entry led into the living room where plants and books were stacked across tables and along windowsills.

There was a mantle over a fireplace and d'Artagnan nodded towards the stairs in the hallway near the back.

"I'll just be a minute. If you want to wait here or– I could put coffee on. Tea?" He was trying to catalogue his cabinets from memory, but embarrassingly enough, d'Artagnan knew his house and cabinets were more than just a little light on produce.

He hadn't spent much time home the last several months. Stepping foot here again after everything that had occurred seemed only to drive home how empty it had truly been without anyone else to tend to it in his absence.

d'Artagnan hadn't realized he'd gotten distracted by thoughts until Aramis placed a hand on his elbow, startling him.

"Your room's up there?" He prompted with the tipping of his head and d'Artagnan managed a sheepish smile before he took the lead, Aramis accompanying him up to his room.

There were two bedrooms at the top of the stairs. One bedroom belonged to d'Artagnan's brother and one that was his own. Alexandre's room had been their father's once before his passing, the two brothers sharing until Alexandre had moved out when he'd turned 19.

It was only 3 years later that Alexandre had to return home and take up the mantle of fatherhood to an unruly 11 year old.

d'Artagnan entered his room. Inside was a semi-organized room cluttered with a multitude of d'Artagnan's interests throughout the years, trophies from football, photos of smiling family pinned by the mirror.

"Sorry I haven't– it's not very organized at the moment." He moved about the room, quickly grabbing what few items of clothes lay on the floor and kicking aside a shoe box or two under the bed.

With his back turned he missed the look that passed over Aramis's face. d'Artagnan was young, they all had known– but when placed in the context of his room, Aramis was unable to deny that he was only a boy.

He hadn't said it, but Aramis knew that he had lost his father only a few years prior from the short file of information they had read.

"I know you weren't expecting guests."

d'Artagnan had been out of sorts since they'd gotten here and it wasn't hard to imagine why. There were reminders of his family, shiny smiles in photos, pinned to the walls around the room.

d'Artagnan hastened not to linger at first, grabbing a bag from the nearby closet and packing away as much of the basics as he could fit inside before he hesitated by the door of the bathroom.

"Would it be alright– if I took a shower? Do we need to be back soon?" His gaze settled longingly on the bathroom before they flickered back over to Aramis. He felt dirty from his exertions of the past two days and the night spent in the hospital.

Maybe it was overly selfish to take the men's time, but the familiarity of home, however barren it felt at times, was far less disconcerting than simply uprooting himself and not looking back, at least for the near future.

It would be a stretch to call it comforting, but with the others in the house, it felt less lonely.

"We're in no hurry. I'll let the others know," Aramis said as he turned to leave before he paused. "Don't get your bandages wet. I'll rewrap them later."

Downstairs, Athos had moved not at all since their arrival. His arms were crossed over his chest and Aramis sighed.

"You know, the house isn't trapped."

"I'm disinclined to find out. Where's the boy?" Maybe not recognizable to others, Aramis could tell some of the cold disdain had sapped from Athos. It wasn't at all amiable or warm, but rather than continue to be difficult on the matter, he seemed to have realized they toed inevitability.

Aramis found his pigheadedness startling at times, but he knew better than to push. There seemed to be something brewing.

"He's in the shower."

"Good timing, that. I've just put on the kettle." Porthos arrived from the kitchen just then. "Lad's got almost nothin' in the fridge."

"Well let's see if we can't dig up some biscuits to go with," Aramis turned and led Porthos back out into the kitchen.

Athos stayed resolutely still a moment longer. He had no intention of following the others into the kitchen– two was plenty in that regard.

The mantelpiece was lined with framed photos and general boredom finally got the best of Athos who made his way languidly to the other side of the room. He didn't touch anything, instead flicking his eyes over the assortment.

The leftmost picture was a holiday picture. In it a young d'Artagnan smiled wide and gap-toothed as Alexandre lifted him up from behind.

The next photo was an older d'Artagnan in his football uniform on the field, the ball at his feet mid-stride and face serious in concentration.

There were several more family photos of young d'Artagnan, or Alexandre who looked so strikingly like d'Artagnan as a boy, making silly faces or posing with their father.

At the far end was a dated picture of who Athos could only presume to be d'Artagnan's mother.

The photo after that was sat facedown in its frame. Athos hesitated. It wasn't his business. He wouldn't touch the photo.

He found himself oddly drawn to it anyways.

An inarticulate noise sounded from behind him and Athos turned. d'Artagnan stood on the stairs, paused in the middle of struggling to get a shirt over his injured shoulder but had stopped to instead stare from the top step, hair dripping.

Athos hid his surprise. For d'Artagnan's part, he looked a little wild, mouth opened, and eyes wide.

"I–," d'Artagnan started and then stopped. He took a moment to pull himself together, to give up on the shirt as he tugged both arms back out and made his way quickly down the stairs.

Athos bit back the instinct to comment about watching his step while moving so quickly down wet stairs.

It was none of his business if the boy got himself hurt.

Yet he hadn't moved from his spot by the mantlepiece. It was clear at this point d'Artagnan had spotted his earlier gaze, sharper than Athos had given him previous credit for.

"It's from my graduation." d'Artagnan now stood at his shoulder, gazing with a fierce longing at the photo. Athos wasn't sure for a second whether he was going to pick it up until d'Artagnan seemed to finally force himself into motion.

He reached out, flipping the photo to sit square with the others. In the photo was a widely grinning d'Artagnan with an arm slung around him by a fiercely proud Alexandre.

It was clear that the photo was recent– probably just before Alexandre's death.

d'Artagnan's fingers were still holding the corner of the frame, pressing hard into the dark wood until his fingers turned white. The way he stared was as though he were seeing the picture for the first time, only just managing to release it with shaky fingers and a sigh.

Athos kept his gaze neutral, unwilling to walk further into a moment mostly his own causation. He didn't want to hear more, he told himself. Know anymore.

d'Artagnan should have kept walking. He should have closed the door. It would certainly have made it easier for Athos.

"He took me out drinking that night in celebration. I was sick as a dog the next day," d'Artagnan recounted with a grimace. "Never let me drink before that. He was a strict father."

"Sensible," Athos noted in the same neutral tone. d'Artagnan must have heard the dry recognition in it, because he huffed a laugh.

It didn't seem as though Athos's one-word reply off-put d'Artagnan to their conversation. It was odd enough that Athos hadn't cut the conversation off at the knee yet– and he could very easily, even with just a well placed look.

It felt as though something had stayed his hand, some necessity to hear the boy out despite how badly he wanted to turn away. Something that related to the startling, plunging guilt he felt in his gut when he thought of another boy so very like d'Artagnan so very long ago from now.

But that thought lead down a train of thought he couldn't afford to traverse lest he capsize and drown in the ocean of regret that rose with it.

There was a soft smile on d'Artagnan's lips as he continued on, oblivious to Athos's reverie or apparent disinterest. Or at least ignoring it.

"I think it scared him a bit. Suddenly he remembered he wasn't actually my father and I'd have to go out into the world. Never said as much, but there was a period of time where I couldn't do very much of anything alone. The changes came so gradually he looked up one day and I was grown."

d'Artagnan didn't mention why the photo had been face down. He didn't need to. In Athos's home, there wasn't a single photo to be found of anyone anywhere.

d'Artagnan was still looking at the photo so he didn't notice the way Athos's jaw clenched. He wasn't sure what he was feeling– only that his hands ached for a drink.

Or that perhaps he was going to be sick.

He chose to interrupt the silence that had drawn out between them.

"The others are in the kitchen." He turned to leave slow enough that it wouldn't be construed as running away.

"I didn't think there was any food left," d'Artagnan puzzled.

"Tea." Athos one-word clarified.

"Right. Tea. Did I buy sugar?" He puzzled quietly to himself as he trailed Athos out, shirt still clutched to his chest.

The kitchen was white and cozy when they arrived, Aramis and Porthos sitting at the round table and nursing their drinks in their hands. If they had any idea that d'Artagnan and Athos had been in the living room talking, they gave no inclination on the matter.

Aramis sat up straighter.

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt? I can see you shivering from here," he admonished, standing up as though to correct the situation before he made another outraged observation. "And your bandages are wet. I distinctly remember saying to keep them dry."

d'Artagnan had the grace to look a little sheepish in the smile he returned.

"I'll admit it was a little hard to wash with one hand. And–," he lifted the shirt that was balled at his chest, "same with putting on the shirt."

Although d'Artagnan adjusted the shirt in his hands like he intended to give it another try.

In that moment, Athos glimpsed a new scar down d'Artagnan's chest from the angle he stood at. It was clear this one was surgical, a clean, short scar that bisected his sternum with a few small, circular scars each side of it.

If the others noticed it, no one said as much. Athos kept his tongue on the matter.

"Stop and come sit here," Aramis began instead, voice adamant. "You can't put that back on with wet bandages unless your goal is an infection."

Aramis gestured to the seat beside him and d'Artagnan did as he was bade. Aramis promptly slipped one of the tea mugs he'd been nursing into d'Artagnan's hands and d'Artagnan wrapped his hands around it gratefully with a look of contentment for the warmth it offered.

"Where is your medical kit?" Aramis didn't bother asking if there was one– Alexandre had been a musketeer. He would have kept the basics at home.

"Oh, just in that cabinet." d'Artagnan made to stand, but Porthos put a hand out to block d'Artagnan from rising with a shake of his head.

Aramis pointed a finger at him and commanded a, "stay," as he made for the cabinet.

"I'm not a dog," d'Artagnan grumbled under his breath as he raised the mug to sip from, although he did again as he was told and stayed seated.

Porthos laughed.

"You do look a little mangy."

d'Artagnan glared at him but his view was interrupted by Aramis finally sitting back down at the table where he placed down a large black bag. Inside were medical supplies, scissors, alcohol wipes and bandages.

d'Artagnan looked at it with dread.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" For all his hesitancies, d'Artagnan was sure that he'd let Aramis go through with this, experience or not. It was better than going back to the hospital.

"Aramis 'ere used to be a combat medic. You're in safe hands," Porthos answered. He was speaking mostly into his mug of tea as he watched the ongoings with an amused glint in his eye.

d'Artagnan nodded and adjusted to offer Aramis better access to his shoulder. It was clear at some point he had accepted his fate.

He missed the moment Aramis spotted the scar on his chest.

They had glossed over his medical history in the background check.

Accessible? Yes, but Aramis and Porthos had argued Athos down from including it as necessity when probing d'Artagnan's history. The boy was vulnerable enough with them putting a foot into any sore secrets.

d'Artagnan winced as Aramis peeled back the wet bandages, head turned away from where Aramis was working.

"How bad is the pain?" Aramis had placed the old bandages aside and was working to gently dry the skin around the wound.

"It's okay," d'Artagnan gritted out, though he refused to look at the wound, head turned the other way around.

Athos caught his eye with an impenetrable gaze and it only took a few more seconds before d'Artagnan crumbled a little under it.

"I've never been shot before," he admitted reluctantly.

"Well it is somewhat common in our line of work. We'll just have to hope you don't end up on the wrong side of my gun again." Aramis smiled but he didn't look up from where he was now putting antibacterial ointment on the stitched wound.

Porthos noted the set of his shoulders despite the lightness of his words but decided to leave it while they were still in front of d'Artagnan. He sat forward with a grunt.

"We'll 'ave to teach you 'ow to properly handle a gun."

"I am a little better with my fists," d'Artagnan acceded. He winced a second later as Aramis found a sore spot. "Ouch."

"Aye, that i've noticed. Think I still got a bootprint bruised into my chest." Porthos whinged while rubbing a hand across his chest. "An' even made Athos sweat a bit, huh?" He added brightly while eying the spectacular bruise that colored Athos's left eye.

That dragged a sheepish smile from d'Artagnan.

"Sorry about that." Something else occurred to him a moment later, for he sat up straighter, face going more serious.

"Aramis?"

Aramis looked up, an easy smile sliding into place across his lips.

"Yes?"

"Thank for shooting me."

"Thank you?" Aramis's tone was confused.

"I mean, I'm sorry you had to. But I could have hurt you. Or Athos." d'Artagnan's eyes flickered momentarily over to where Atho was still leaned against the entry to the kitchen.

"I sincerely doubt that." d'Artagnan seemed to catch something in the phrasing of Aramis's answer for he turned around more fully then despite the sharp noise that came from Aramis as his work was pulled away.

"You did what anyone would have done had they been in that situation." d'Artagnan paused. "I would have done the same if I knew how to use a gun."

Aramis only sighed but some of the sincerity of d'Artagnan's words must have gotten through as he placed a gentle hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder to turn him away again and get back to the shoulder he was bandaging.

"Like Porthos says– we'll have to get that sorted then."

The rest of the careful bandaging left d'Artagnan feeling once again something close to a mummy. The awkward placing meant that not only did Aramis have to tape over the entry and exit wounds, but that he wrapped a line of gauze around d'Artagnans shoulder and through his armpit to make sure it stayed in place.

d'Artagnan reached down for his shirt and tried to pull it over his head and Aramis snorted as Porthos started laughing when d'Artagnan got stuck about halfway.

"On your feet, lad," Porthos said as he pushed his chair back from the table and made his way over to d'Artagnan.

Disgruntled at needing the help, d'Artagnan stood and tolerated the spectacle with ill ease and a frown.

Porthos plucked the shirt from d'Artagnan's hands and scrunched it so he could pull it over d'Artagnan's head in one go. He popped out the other side, short brown hair in disarray as he tried to clear it from his eyes.

Aramis laughed at the performance.

"Be careful with my handiwork."

"And what about me?"

d'Artagnan tried for a frown but couldn't hide the laugh in his voice as he cooperated with Porthos to get his left arm through the sleeve.

"I think in this instance, you fall under that category," Aramis replied thoughtfully.

d'Artagnan gave in with an amused smile of his own as both him and Porthos tugged at his shirt to get it situated over d'Artagnan's injured arm.

They managed it with only a bit of wincing on d'Artagnan's part as Porthos tugged the shirt down and brushed the imaginary dust from his shoulders before declaring him fit.

"Alright', 'n where you've got your stuff stored at then?"

"Oh! I left my bag at the top of the stairs. I was–" d'Artganan hesitated but pointedly didn't glance in Athos's direction, "distracted. I'll fetch it now."

"Naw, sit there 'n finish your tea." Porthos pointed a thumb over his shoulder and was leaving before d'Artagnan had a chance to protest, because he had planned to.

d'Artagnan sat again and sipped at his tea, Aramis drinking his own besides him. His eye was drawn to Athos, who stood drinkless.

"Did you want a cup?"

Athos paid the thought little attention.

"We need to be leaving soon."

"I could find a thermos."

Aramis cut in.

"What he means to say is that he only drinks coffee, black."

Athos glared at Aramis as d'Artagnan hummed thoughtfully at that and filed it away for future reference.

Porthos returned shortly after, bag in tow.

"Alrigh' if you grannies are ready to go then."

They placed the dishes in the sink– Aramis offered to wash them but d'Artagnan waved him off, saying he'd get them when he returned home. They double checked that d'Artagnan hadn't forgotten anything of note and headed for the car out front.

There was something depressingly final feeling about closing the door behind him, as though he were leaving a trail of ghosts in his wake. One by one, the happy family that had grown here had left it behind.

Tragedy seemed to follow the d'Artagnan's around. In some small part of him, d'Artagnan wondered if it was a sign. He wouldn't have called superstitious.

Porthos wrapped an arm around his shoulders good naturedly on the walk back, talking loudly about all his favorite places to get food as d'Artagnan suggested a few new ones.


End file.
